Star of Hope
by Manus Dei
Summary: When a vessel carrying the last son of a doomed world takes an unexpected turn into a strange new realm and is found by an unlikely group of exiles, hope will shine bright on a shattered land and nothing will be the same again.
1. Prologue - He Came From the Sky

Prologue - He Came From the Sky

Azeroth. A world with a long, convoluted and often painful history, where great and terrible beings alike have fought for dominance or mere survival over thousands of years. A world that has stood up to flame and shadow, haunted by ancient horrors. A world in perpetual flux, shaped by its champions and the shifting pathways of time itself, where even one exceptional being can have the potential to bring about incredible change. And change it would, with events set in motion on a fateful day on the eve of the First War, when a group of exiles made a surprising discovery somewhere in the Alterac mountains...

Durotan gazed upon the horizon as another day drew to a close. Though weary, he did not dare halt his course at such an exposed location. He feared for the safety of his lifemate and the rest of the Frostwolf Clan he had led through the Dark Portal into the unkown new world in an attempt to escape Gul'dan's minions, and he knew it was only a matter of time before someone found them, either the Shadow Council or whatever creatures inhabited this new world. Straining their riding wolves to cover as much ground as possible, travelling night and day and avoiding any signs of civilization, he had followed Drek'thar's guidance and his own instincts and now found himself in an elevated area overlooking Hillsbrad.

Next to him, Drek'thar strained himself attempting to commune with the spirits for guidance. The taint of the Shadow Council's dark magic and the madness of Gul'dan's tampering with the elements had cost him and many of his people dearly, breaking their ancient bond with the spirits and burdening his soul with the many horrors he had witnessed and taken part in. Yet, he had not been completely forsaken, and as he distanced himself from the madness he had left behind, he had slowly begun to regain their trust. And thus, the Frostwolf exiles had made their way into the mountains, guided by the faint whispering of the spirits. He had envisioned a secluded place somewhere nearby, hidden from sight, and he felt they were getting very close. Still, the next stretch of the path eluded him, and he paused for a moment, sensing the presences around him as a replacement for his long lost sight.

"Where do we go from here?" Durotan asked, gazing upon the rocky expanses that lay before him. The changes in his mate had become rather obvious to him, and he was anxious to find a more permanent shelter while she could still move around freely.

Before the farseer could answer him, however, a strange rumbling sound reverberated through the air, shortly followed by the sight of a fiery form plummetting through the sky towards the mountains. It crashed with a thunderous boom, close enough for the impact to startle the wolves and nearly knock Durotan off his feet. He blinked incredulously and, without much thought, he rushed forward to investigate, followed by Drek'thar. Several hundred yards ahead, they came upon the mouth of a cave that seemed to reach deep into the mountains, and right next to it was a smoldering crater of considerable size, where a strange metallic object was resting, its surface already cooling rapidly. It was adorned with a strange insignia that vaguely reminded Durotan of a clan crest, but unlike any he had ever seen.

"What is this...?" Drek'thar muttered as he approached the object, hesitantly touching the strange insignia. Suddenly, startling both orcs, the object hummed lightly and a section of its surface unraveled, revealing a chamber on the inside containing a very small being lying on a protective bed, wrapped in what appeared to be a red blanket. It stared at the two with big blue eyes, appearing just as confused as them. The being, clearly an infant, looked considerably different from orcs in some ways, with its pale, pinkish complexion and somewhat delicate features, but aside from that, it was fundamentally similar. Bemused, Drek'thar picked up the youngling, sensing it as clearly as if his own eyes were functioning.

"A pinkskin...? Is this the manner of beings that live in this world?" Durotan muttered, hesitating to touch such a fragile looking creature as if afraid of accidentally harming it.

"Whatever it is, I can tell you it is a boy." Drek'thar spoke. "I sense that one day he will stand tall and strong, but for now, it would seem that he has come a long way, just like us, and is all by himself."

Memories of the screams of the draenei children came to the forefront of the farseer's thoughts, and he shook his head vigorously in an attempt to ward them off. Another thought soon took form in their place, and for the first time since the beginning of their journey, he smiled.

They were soon joined by the rest of the clan, to whom the perspective of being separated from their chieftain and their farseer for any length of time was definitely troubling. Draka came upon the two as they carried him away from the crater.

"A gift from the spirits?" She mused, eyeing the infant. "Yet another."

Durotan was apprehensive about the prospect of looking after a being they knew nothing about, but regardless of how dire the circumstances, he would not shame his ancestors by abandoning a child in the wilderness. He stepped closer to Draka and allowed himself a smile.

"If he is to join us, he will need a name."

Their musings were interrupted by a clan warrior who had decided to check the cave for any signs of danger.

"Chieftain! This is no mere grotto! I see light! There's a path on the other side!"

Drek'thar gazed upon the infant and lifted it closer to his face.

"Were you sent to show us the way, small one?"


	2. The Snows of Alterac

Chapter 1 – The Snows of Alterac

"KAL'RAK!" An orc's gruff voice boomed across the snow covered valley, startling a few sleeping wolves and a couple of unfortunate orc sentries who had reached the verge of tired slumber while leaning against their oversized axes.

It was yet another snowy, chilling day in a land where the sun was merely a distant watcher. Dawn had broken scant minutes before, though that only meant the temperature was slightly less unberable to any but the stoutest and most tenacious. In sharp contrast with the burly, bulky orcs that moved around with a slow, deliberate pace and covered in furs to withstand the cold, a rather lightly clothed pink-skinned youngling was riding a particularly large wolf around, its white and absurdly fluffy body melding with the snow, barely invisible if not for its large blue eyes and the large tracks it was leaving in its careless dash through the encampment. The wolf gave a low whine as the orc's scream reached its ears and lowered its head. For his part, the youngling on its back just grinned mischievously. The single long pelt hanging over his shoulder, the fur trousers and the heavy boots were his only protection from the cold, but he seemed to be wearing them more for decency's sake than for actual comfort.

"Yes, farseer?" He asked sheepishly when Drek'thar approached, storming out of his hut with his head covered in what appeared to be some sort of red dye. He was clearly struggling to keep a straight face at the sight of the old orc.

"What have I told you about these pranks?" He fumed, glaring at the youngling despite his obvious blindness. Young Kal'rak had already learned at his own expense that the aging orc could still sense his presence with ease, baffling even the most skilled trackers of the Frostwolf clan when it came to finding him. Even now, the orc's gaze seemed to burn through his blindfold and straight into his eyes.

"Bad, wrong, wa... was... wasteful..." The boy recited, struggling to keep a straight face despite the sight of the orc's head covered in the acrid smelling red liquid.

"Why then?" Drek'thar sighed, trying to remind himself that he was talking to a youngling who probably didn't know any better. His own infancy came to mind. "Why waste our people's work like this? You know how hard it is to find some materials here."

"To make you come out." The youngling said with a pout. "You sit around your hut, talk to spirits all day. Nobody else talks to me. Nobody else likes me. Only you and Krypto. Durotan and Draka were nice but... they're gone now."

Drek'thar sighed and his shoulders slumped. There was some truth in the boy's words. Dealing with such a strange adopted child had proven difficult for a good part of the clan. The boy was stubborn, questioned everything, and often did not understand the orcs around him, their traditions, their rites.

Drek'thar had tried to remind them that as an orphan from a different race, he had no way of knowing what he had never been taught. The farseer had tried to educate the youngling himself, but the process had proved slow and difficult. His curiosity was insatiable, his energy unending, and he would hardly stand still. He had easily traversed the entire valley with his oversized wolf several times on his endless exploration, utterly fascinated by every single plant, rock and animal. Still he wouldn't stop. He would disappear for days at a time before coming back as if nothing had happened. Drek'thar had tried to impress upon him the importance of caution in a mostly unknown world, but to no avail. Orcish traditions were too long and complex to teach an outsider overnight, and the farseer tried in earnest, but those things still took time. He could sense the glimmer of intelligence and curiosity in the boy, but his lack of focus and impulsive nature often got both of them sidetracked. Most vexing of all, however, was the boy's practically supernatural strength and resilience. The cold never seemed to bother him, and as they had found out one night after him tripping and falling on a campfire, flames did nothing to his skin. His sight and hearing put the senses of the most seasoned trackers to shame, and though the youngling tried to control it, his strength was utterly monstrous. On top of it all, his growth rate was staggering. Though Drek'thar had no way of knowing the boy's age, he kept getting stronger, faster and a little bigger each day, practically growing taller in front of everyone's eyes. It was probably these things, Drek'thar mused, that made the other orcs treat him the way they did. Exiles, cast out from their world, forced to find a new home in a frozen valley where they fought for survival. A culture that valued strength and resilience. A strange youngling, not even an orc, stronger and tougher than their mightiest warriors. Wounded pride could be such a petty thing, he thought to himself.

The mention of Durotan and Draka was a painful reminder of yet more loss. He involuntarily found his mind drifting back to that day, five years prior, shortly after the birth of their son.

"Farseer!" A warrior on the back of a large black wolf called out. "Farseer!"

"What now?" Drek'thar sighed, turning from patching a hole on the side of his fur tent to face him.

"The Chieftain and his mate... they're... they're dead!"

The grizzled orc clutched his chest, suddenly feeling very worn and tired as the stabbing pain lanced through it. He stared at the rider and then at the youngling sleeping in his tent. Motioning at the newcomer, Drek'thar led him away so as not to disturb Kal'rak's sleep and then turned to him again.

"How did this happen? And where is Go'el?"

"They seem to have been ambushed. Whomever did this were cowards and savages." The warrior snarled and spat. "Hacked at them like beasts. The rest of the scouts are searching the area, but there is no sign of Go'el so far."

"Doomhammer will have much to explain when we find him." Drek'thar growled. He did not expect his chieftain's old friend to be capable of something like that, but ever since the reach and corruptive influence of the Shadow Council had been exposed to the Frostwolf clan, he found himself pressed to trust anyone. Fighting his grief and anger, he gave his orders to the warrior.

"Cover them, and bring them back. We owe our Chieftain a proper burial. And if you happen to find any of Gul'dan's cronies lurking around... make them hurt, but bring them alive."

Forcing himself back to the present, he struggled to fight off the grief that still hung over him like a dark cloud. Kal'rak couldn't help thinking how old and tired he looked all of a sudden and wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him or if he had always been like that since that day he couldn't remember.

"We all miss our Chieftain and his mate, Kal'rak. We all feel lost and wounded. You were too young back then, but even you could sense something was wrong. We all have to be strong and keep going. For their memory. For the future."

"You never said what happened back then. You said Go'el gone. You cried when nobody looking."

The tired, grieving orc led him back inside the makeshift hut that had replaced the original tent, settled by the fire and tried his best to explain it, using small words that his ward could comprehend.

"Evil people. Bad. Shadow Council. Gul'dan. They want... they want all orcs to be... monsters. Chieftan take us away. Try to hide. Fight back later. They kill him. Never found Go'el. Understand, Kal'rak?"

That much, young Kal'rak could understand. What Drek'thar had not expected, however, was his reaction. The kindness he had been shown by the gruff chieftain and his doting mate, as well as by the shaman himself had not been lost on him, and he huddled close to the shaman, fighting back tears.

"Gone..." The boy muttered. "Big chief, big mom... brother too..."

Drek'thar had seen and done many things in his life, both honorable and atrocious, but one of the things he had never been able to learn how to do was to soothe a crying youngling. The sinking feeling in his own chest only intensified as he saw his own grief reflected on little Kal'rak's expression. Despite his age and limited vocabulary, his mind was already developed enough to grasp the orc's words. What surprised Drek'thar, however, was what came next. A few instants later, the tears gave way to something else. Something primal, something that scared even the scarred blind shaman. The youngling wiped his tears and gritted his teeth.

"Get it now... Gone because of... fel... sucking... turd..." Kal'rak muttered, parroting something he'd probably heard from some of the orcs at the makeshift village. Then, he sucked in a breath and wiped the tears from his eyes.

"No more crying." He muttered to himself. "No more."

With a body posture not entirely unlike that of an orc, young Kal'rak nudged Krypto out of his slumber by the fire, then stepped outside and grabbed the biggest, most menacing axe he could find lying around. Pausing to think for a moment, he then grabbed another one. Drek'thar watched him with growing alarm as he called Krypto outside.

"What are you doing with those axes, runt?!" One of the grunts guarding the makeshift settlement roared. To his surprise, little Kal'rak, the youngling, the pinksin, the outsider, glared at him with a primal fury that made him back down. Anyone looking closely enough could see the boy's eyes, burning with fury, a hint of a red glow showing in them.

"What is this? What are you doing Kal'rak?" Drek'thar intervened, just as the boy climbed on his wolf's back. The boy's command of orcish was still a work in progress, and he was still a child for all intents and purposes, but the words he growled then and there chilled the farseer's blood, making him regret what he had just told the boy.

"Gul'dan..." He spat with contempt as if the name tasted like bile in his throat. "Mak'gora. Mak'gora!"

By then, a small crowd had assembled, wondering what the commotion was about. Everyone present clearly heard his words, but the worst was yet to come. Drek'thar carefully stepped closer and tried to grab Krypto's riding harness, but Kal'rak would have none of it. With a sudden burst of speed, Krypto carried his companion forth, knocking the farseer aside, along with two or three other orcs who also tried to stop him.

"No..." Drek'thar gasped as he struggled to get back on his feet. "Kal'rak, no!" He bellowed. "You don't know what you're doing! Stop!"

To their credit, despite their misgivings about the youngling, many orcs rallied in an attempt to stop him. Still repeating the same words over and over, he was able to overtake his pursuers, and just as they looked like they might stand a chance of catching him, Drek'thar felt a great tremor among the elemental spirits and the biggest, most terrifying snowstorm the Frostwolves had ever seen in their recorded history soon showed itself over the horizon, howling as it approached at an impossible pace. The riders pushed on but between the cold, the howling winds and the blinding snow, in which the large white wolf might as well have been invisible, forced them to turn back one after another.

In his child's mind, Kal'rak failed to understand the danger or the repercussions of what he was doing, and his body was stong and durable enough to throw any sense of caution to the winds. Still, he was only a child, and not quite as invincible as his rage had led him to believe. After what to him felt like days running through the storm, he paused for a moment to get his bearings at the edge of a jagged cliff overlooking a frozen stream. In reality, only a few hours had gone by, but he had lost both the orcs chasing him and any sense of direction. Even to his heightened senses it was difficult to get any sort of bearings when everything was a white blurred mass, and though he knew the valley well, he was woefully unprepared for a storm of this violence, having to cling to Krypto's back to avoid being swept off. Even Krypto himself was beginning to have some trouble running straight. He had no provisions, no map, no real plan and no knowledge of the outside world beyond the valley. Only his wolf, the oversized axes bigger than he was, and the burning in his heart that he could not fully comprehend.

As he leaned forward, trying to get a better view, a gust of wind knocked his light frame off the riding harness, tumbling through the snow and off the cliff, straight through the frozen surface of the stream below. Just as he thought he had stopped, he was swept by the currents underneath the ice, and then through a raging underground stream. By the time he saw light again, he was tumbling down a waterfall along the face of a mountain, with strange green lands he had never seen before in view in the distance.

Alone in the blizzard, separated from his companion and beginning to feel the strain from the mad dash through the freezing storm, Krypto slumped down and let out a piercing howl of grief.

Meanwhile, sitting in his hut, Drek'thar started at the fire with a dejected expression, as if seeking the usual guidance from the spirits. Upon closer inspection, however, it was not guidance that he sought, but something else. In his sight beyond sight, he could see a figure standing against the flames, glowing as if made of light, clad in strange robes unlike anything seen in two worlds. Humbled, powerless, and broken even further than he thought himself capable of enduring, the disgraced shaman lowered his head and whispered.

"Forgive me, Jor-El... I have failed your son... I have failed my people... I have failed my world, this one and yours..."

Though the process of communing with a spirit not only from another race but also from an entirely different world was extremely taxing and bringing him to the limit of his strength, Drek'thar could feel the ghostly apparition's eyes upon him, not as harsh as he would have expected. Instead, the lingering spirit of Jor-El looked upon him with a blend of regret and acceptance.

"No, Drek'thar of the Frostwolf Clan. You prepared him as well as you could, given the difficult circumstances. The Last Son of Krypton is not so easily lost, and if fate and chance are kind, you will see him again, even if you do not recognize him at first. But right now your people need you. They need your hard earned wisdom and guidance so they will not stray into darkness as others have."

"So what will you do now, Jor-El?"

"I am grateful that you were able to reach out to me, though the process is very taxing to both of us. I must rest and regain my strength for a time. For now, your people need you more than I, and there is nothing more you can do for my son at this point. You will have to be patient and find strength within to keep going despite this day. But do not forget... My son's inheritance must remain safe until he returns to you. It contains knowledge he will need. Knowledge that can be extremely dangerous in the wrong hands."

"I will do so then. I just wish I could have had more time to prepare the boy for the outside world. There is much he does not yet understand, and there are many forces that will seek to exploit his power... or silence it forever."

"It is out of our hands for now. We can only hope that he will find the right guidance wherever his path takes him. For now, I must depart. Be well, Drek'thar, and do not be too harsh on yourself."

The aging orc settled down, covering himself with a large pelt. Though his head was still hanging in shame, he sighed in grudging acceptance, knowing the situation was out of his hands. Still, he spent the rest several hours attempting to commune with the local spirits, beseeching them to watch over his ward until his strength was spent and he fell into a fitful sleep.


	3. The Green Hills Below

Chapter 2 – The Green Hills Below

Tumbling down through the water, dragged by the currents and tossed around like a doll, Kalrak finally emerged and found himself on a riverbank amidst verdant hills and plains. Dizzy and nauseous, he stumbled further inland, trailing and spitting out water as he caught his breath. The sun was beginning to set as he wandered aimlessly, barely aware of his surroundings, until hunger and exhaustion caught up with him and he stumbled down, falling asleep in the soft earth. In his state he did not notice the wooden fences, the fields laden with golden crops or the animals wandering about, in particular the mare with a straw colored mane, which at the sight of his prone form ran off towards the nearby farmhouse.

Hearing the horse's panicked noises and the stomping of its hooves on the wooden floor of the front porch, someone hastily unlocked the thick door and a man stepped outside, wearing a simple farmer's clothing but with a stance and focus that spoke of experience in a different trade.

"What is it Blanchie?" he asked as he reached for an oil lamp resting on a bench hear the door. As he lit it, his weathered face came into view, revealing piercing eyes, a short dark beard and an earnest frown of concern.

As if understanding his words, or merely realizing it was receiving the attention she desired, the mare spun in place and, after looking behind to make sure he was following, trotted in the direction of the fields. As Blanchie stopped near the unmoving form, he hesitantly approached, pointing the lantern at it.

"By the Light..." he muttered.

Kal'rak awakened the next morning, finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings. He realized he was lying on something soft, covered by strange blankets instead of the pelts he was accustomed to. His clothing was also gone, replaced with a tunic of the same material. Surprised, and somewhat alarmed, he bolted to his feet and looked around. He saw his axes leaning against a wall by the door and his pelts hanging on a rack in front of the window, still considerably soaked and dripping on the wooden floor. Before his mind could process everything that was happening, he once again felt the pangs of hunger and realized he had not eaten for nearly a day.

He jumped back with a start as the door opened, and two strange creatures stepped inside. His eyes widened in shock as he realized that, unlike the orcs he was familiar with, these beings had pink skin, just like him, as well as body frames in general that looked much smaller and more fragile than those of the orcs. They were wearing simple clothing, spunk from the same strange fabric he had found himself dressed in, though one of them, clearly a male, with brown eyes, a short dark beard and short but slightly unkept hair, seemed to be wearing a loose white shirt, blue trousers and leather boots.

The other, female, was wearing something completely different, a long blue dress, simple and functional, that none of the Frostwolf females would be caught dead wearing, but which somehow seemed to fit the dark-haired pinksin. Though she seemed a little nervous, she stared right at him with deep blue eyes that made him feel something strange and heavy in his chest.

The two exchanged glances, and said something in a language he could not understand before turning to him. Surprised by his confused reaction, they tried saying some more, but he still could not understand a word. Realizing that they were trying to communicate with him, he replied in the only language he knew.

"Throm'ka?" he mouted hesitantly. The two exchanged glances, for some reason looking absolutely horrified. He did not understand their reaction.

"Light have mercy..." the man muttered, though the boy could not understand. "What have they done to you?"

Kal'rak could not understand why, but both of them looked like they were on the verge of tears.

"Those monsters..." the woman lamented. "Now they're stealing children? Murdering them for their rituals was not enough?"

The man sighed. "They're not hurting this one!"

The man then cleared his throat and tried his best approximation of the Orcish tongue. Kal'rak could tell a few things right away despite his state of confusion. The male pinksin was not particularly fluent in it, but was trying his best, and the female seemed distinctly uncomfortable to hear it spoken in her dwelling, though he could not fathom why. Drek'Thar had been out of touch with the rest of the clans for a long time, and while the spirits had shared some rather chilling information with him, he had not wanted to scar the boy's young mind with it, nor had he gone into too much detail about the circumstances in Draenor before that.

"Who... are... you?" the man asked, slowly pronouncing the words in Orcish. "Are you lost?"

"Kal'rak." the boy replied, banging his closed fist on his chest. "Lost... Hungry."

The man let out a sigh of relief and turned to the woman, speaking again in the strange language the bou did not recognize.

"A lost, hungry boy, Martha..." the man said, looking shaken. "And raised by... them, no less..."

"Look at him..." she replied. "He's so young..."

Kal'rak did not understand what was happening, but the two looked at him and seemed incredibly sad. The female ran out of the room and came back a moment later, carrying a wooden tray laden with strange food he had never seen before. The smell, however, was quite inviting, especially given how long it had been since his last meal. The female motioned at him to sit down at the bed, and as he did so she placed the tray on his lap. He proceeded to devour everything in mere moments, the new tastes further encouraging his appetite. Bread, fruit jam, cheese, grapes, all things the Frostwolf Clan had no access to in their exile, as well as a large clay jug full of milk. For the boy, it was a feast.

The two watched him eat, seemingly calming down though still in an emotional state. They started whispering something to each other, but were interrupted by a very loud noise outside that made them stiffen.

"Not again..." the man growled. This surprised Kal'rak as it was the first time he was seeing one of the pinksins displaying anger. He looked out the window, and then ran out of the room, yelling something at the woman. Wondering what was going on, Kal'rak temporarily forgot his feast and followed him just in time to see him grab a strange object that was leaning against the doorway, a long metal tube with some kind of wooden attachments. He then stepped outside, holding the object vertically.

Jonathan Kent had been a veteran of the Second War, a son of Hillsbrad and a dedicated husband who had never had the chance to become an actual father by some quirk of fate. His farm was the legacy of his father and grandfather, and he was not going to let either brigands or wildlife threaten it.

It just so happened that he was dealing with a combination of both. Since the First War, ogres had spread across the Eastern Kingdoms like a plague, both squatting in abandoned areas left empty by the First and Second Wars and sometimes aggressively seizing isolated homesteads. They had been a menace to his farm in particular since his return from the Second War, and he hated them with a passion. He had been lucky enough to befriend a dwarven artisan during the war, who had crafted rifles for his regiment, and even luckier to be allowed to keep it and a lifetime supply of ammunition as a parting gift once his service to the Alliance was concluded.

He stepped outside just in time to see one of the brutes, of the single headed cyclopean variety, grab Blanchy, likely planning to eat the poor mare. He was having none of it. Kal'rak watched as he aimed the strange tube and, with a crack of thunder, the ogre's eye erupted in a shower of blood. The creature screamed, dropping the terrified mare, and slumped to the floor, dead.

However, three more soon came into view, shouting obsceneties in their language. Even Kal'rak, who had been raised by orcs, held the creatures in contempt, knowing from Drek'thar's stories exactly what kind of vicious thugs they usually were.

He watched as Blanchie got back on her feet and scurried away, and as the pinksin did something with his weapon.

Jonathan bit down a curse as the rifle jammed and struggled to get it working again. In a fury, one of the ogres quickly crossed the distance and backhanded him across the face, knocking him limply to the ground.

What happened next would be the subject of conversations in countless inns, taverns and local festivals for years to come. As Kal'rak watched in horror as the first of his kind he had ever met was struck down, his heart started pounding like a war drum and a rage unlike anything he had ever felt in his life took hold. As he clenched his fists, the farmer's wife felt a tremendous heat radiate from his small body. As her legs gave way from the shock of watching her husband's state, Kal'rak darted out the door, crossing the distance to the ogres instantly. Martha Kent had seen her share of strange things, in no small part due to the orcish invasion, but she was utterly dumbfounded at what was going on in front of her eyes. Leaning against the wall for support, she managed to peek outside just in time to see the boy's right fist collide with the offending ogre's head, sending him flying with a loud, sickening crunch. But the boy was not done, not by any means.

An inhuman roar erupted from his chest, and Martha watched as he, with his eyes glowing red and screaming orcish warcries interspersed with expletives, proceeded to utterly devastate the rest of the band with his bare hands and feet, moving too fast for her eyes to follow. With each punch and kick, they would be sent flying with a sickening crunch, never to rise again, and with each ogre he felled, his rage only seemed to reach new heights. In a few brutal instants, it was all over, and in total eight ogres were lying dead in the Kent farmstead grounds. As the last of them fell, Kal'rak, still in the throes of his rage, kept punching his face until it was reduced to a bloody pulp. Bloodied, exhausted by his outburst, and now with his meal churning in his stomach from the paroxism of fury, he eventually stopped and turned to Jonathan's limp form. He could not put it into words or even explain in coherent thoughts what he was feeling, as he had finally found another of his own kind only to watch him struck down, but instead he let out a tearful wail.

Watching the bloodied wild child's wordless grief as he shook her husband's limp body, Martha felt her heart about to shatter... and then skip a beat as the boy suddenly stopped and went silent, eyes wide in surprise. As she ran closer, she realized Jonathan was breathing again, weakly, but very much alive, although probably somehwat worse for the wear. For his part, as Jonathan slowly opened his eyes, he was utterly confused by the entire scene. He coughed and reached for his face, feeling a sharp pain that indicated his nose was broken, but everything else seemed to still be one piece.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?" he muttered, looking at the boy.

Years later...

The monastery of the Order of Tirisfal stood solemn and silent as the clergy inside went about their daily duties. As a tall figure clad in simple white robes and with its head covered in a hood walked by the courtyard, some of the acolytes stopped their physical training activities and started murmuring to each other, staring at the it.

The newcomer ignored them, proceeding further inside at a brisk pace, not running, but still with clearly urgent steps. The veteran clergy stood out of the way, that the figure was on an important assignment and should not be delayed.

Reaching the inner sanctum, the figure pushed aside the massive wooden door and came face to face with an older man, clad in white robes with golden embroidery, far more elaborate than those of anyone outside, while still retaining a mostly functional and humble appearance.

The man looked tired, and somewhat emaciated, covering his mouth with his right hand to muffle a bout of coughing before addressing the newcomer.

"Thank you for making it on such short notice." he said, as he attempted to rise from his chair for a proper greeting. Seeing his state, the newcomer instead approached, gesturing at him to stay as he was. Even taking a knee, the newcomer still towered over the older man, placing one of his large hands on the cleric's shoulder with surprising care for someone his size.

"Are you ill?" the newcomer asked with concern.

"So it seems." the older man answered, suppressing another fit of coughing. "It would be better for you not to get too close. But that is not why I called you here. Please, stand."

The newcomer did as instructed and waited in silence. Alonsus Faol knew more than he let on for the most part. His awareness of matters that eluded the immediate attention of those around him was both a blessing and a curse. This case in particular seemed to be leaning further towards the latter, given his frown and evident fatigue.

"There are dark events in motion, my boy." he finally said. "I have not been able to put all the pieces together yet, but I already feel that we are running out of time. I trained you as best as I could, but I fear it may not be enough. Regardless, it will have to do for now. I have a new task for you."

"What would you ask of me?"

"You have always shown tremendous potential, but I have kept you sequestered from much of the outside world out of fear that your incomplete training would end up undoing your good work, or that you would get overeager and endanger yourself. But now it is time for direct intervention."

The Archbishop produced a scroll of parchment from a pocket in his robes, bound with his personal wax seal. From another pocket, he produced a golden insignia in the shape of a roaring lion's head, attached to a long leather strap.

"You must seek out my former pupil. The Silver Hand will need your strength in the dark times ahead. This letter of introduction will expedite your induction, and given the circumstances and your talents, you will not be simply one of the rank and file. I know you have long wished to join them, and given your talents and the quality of your character, it would be a waste to have you start as a squire."

The hooded figure struggled to maintain its composure, clearly caught off guard by the Archbishop's words.

"Your Eminence..." the figure began to say, at a loss for words.

"My boy, I know that you and I did not always see eye to eye, especially on the matter of your training and upbringing. I know that if it were up to you, you would be out in the world at large, being a force for the greater good as you have always longed for. Perhaps some of my caution was not that of a teacher but that of an old man fearing for the safety of a child. Perhaps all of this was unnecessary, or its value will not be readily apparent to you, but for my part, I am glad to have had this opportunity. Now is your time to grow, to stand with your own strength."

The Archbishop seemed conflicted, harboring both brimming pride and deep sorrow. The figure pondered this for a moment, and, feeling its scrutiny, Alonsus composed himself and placed the insignia around the figure's neck before handing it the sealed scroll.

"You must make haste for Andorhal. Try not to draw too much attention until you arrive, but do not tarry. I sense the hand of a terrible enemy at work here, and your presence may well be the tipping point."

The figure nodded and turned to leave. As it did so, Alonsus watched.

"Go with the Light, child." he muttered to himself.

Little did the figure know, this was the last time it would see the Archibishop alive again.

Andorhal, the regional distribution center for grain in eastern Lordaeron, was going through dark days. After the horrors of the Second War had seemed gone and forgotten, the population was now confronted by whisperings of a vile cult lurking in the shadows, rumors of a plague that had already devastated remote villages... and more recently, the very palpable threat of undead hordes roaming the countryside.

"What madnes is this?" a footman lamented, struggling to maintain his composure as he finished wiping the foul ichor from a ghoul off the blade of his sword as he surveyed the field ahead through the slit of his helmet with tired eyes. The elegant suit of plate armor was marred and stained with mud, blood and other substances he did not care to think about.

Ahead, a lone figure stood, brandishing a massive hammer against a pack of ghouls, each swing reducing the rotting flesh and dessicated bone to mangled remains on the muddy ground.

Arthas Menethil was having a very bad day. After being confronted with remannts of the Horde and their filthy demon worshipping ways, and discovering the handiwork of the Cult of the Damned, he had made all haste to Andorhal in hopes of intercepting the grain shipments that were spreading the Cult's plague. Instead he had found empty warehouses and undead roaming the fields. As the dread gripping his heart started turning into sheer horror, he redoubled his efforts, still believing he could counter the Cult's plans if he pushed himself far enough.

His regal armor was stained with ghoul ichor and orc blood. His face was pale and his eyes were rimmed by black circles, telltale signs of his lack of sleep. His long blond hair was disheveled from long rides exposed to the elements and vicious battles, and he was seriously pondering cutting it short so it would not get in the way. His gloved hands gripped the handle of his massive hammer and swung it with reckless abandon as the mind commanding them was beginning to show the signs of obsession.

His command of the Light had been growing unstable as of late, likely a result of his growing dread. He had little time to ponder this, however, as a larger pack of ghouls rushed forth to replace the ones he had just felled. Imbuing the head of the hammer with a golden radiance, he charged to meet them and struck again. The forces under his command were struggling to keep up with his pace.

Behind the hideous mockeries of human life, he saw more of the grotesque spiders, flanked by the increasingly familiar robed figures of the necromancers. Fatigue and dread started giving way to sheer, unadaulterated hatred.

So focused was Arthas on the enemies in front of him that he failed to notice several things. The first was the distant sound of galloping steeds, though he could be excused for that given the sounds of the battlefield drowning out almost everything else. The second was the smaller pack of ghouls that took advantage of his bout of tunnel vision to circle around him and attempt to strike from behind. The third was more difficult to describe. A booming sound, echoing through the air as something moved through the skies in a streak of white.

Arthas sensed the movemend behind him and turned around just in time to see a ghoul's fetid claws aiming straight for his face. Biting back a swear word, he tried to swing his hammer, knowing that he would likely still get hit. His choice of not wearing a helmet on the field so his troops would recognize him on the spot was beginning not to seem as wise as he had thought.

All this, actions, reactions and thoughts, were cut short as a blinding golden light engulfed his surroundings, forcing him to close his eyes. The undead let out wailing screams the likes of which he had not heard before and his nose was assaulted by the stench of burning flesh. Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes.

The entire battle stopped momentarily as the soldiers, finally catching up with their prince, saw a towering figure, even taller than Arthas, strand in front of him.

Surprised, but trying to maintain what little of his composure was left after the ordeals of the last several days, Arthas gazed upon the figure as it removed its hood, revealing a young man, barely an adult, with ruffled black hair and piercing blue eyes, clad in a white cloak that barely concealed a suit of plate bearing the familiar design of the Silver Hand's armory.

"Are you all right?" the young man asked, baffling everyone present by the contrast between the imposing figure and the surprisingly soft voice.

"Who...?" Arthas managed to ask.

The young man simply stood at attention and saluted.

"Apologies for my lateness. I am Brother Kent... of the Silver Hand."

He had waited most of his life to say those words, and now he was finally in the front lines. Little did Kal'rak – or Clark – know just how far his journey would take him, and how he would change the world around him.


End file.
